The Golden Reel
by Nils Jansen
Summary: As he tries to go legit, Michael receives a visit and an unbelievable offer from a criminal mastermind. Michael's answer to him is easy. Figuring out the motives of his visitor's secretary is not. As always, Micheal's decision ultimately leads to yet another tragic outcome.
1. Ed or fra noi parliam da buoni amici

* * *

**SPOILERS**: _The Godfather_, Parts I and II.

* * *

**March 1963**

Al Neri opened the door to the vast office overlooking Lake Tahoe. At the opposite end, he noticed his boss facing the sparkling, still waters of Lake Tahoe. Al knew that his boss' daily contemplation of the picturesque view did not offer the expected solace from daily dealings in the darkened, cavernous office. Instead, Al's boss would ponder the most difficult decision he ever had to make.

A decision that Al himself carried out on a small boat hundreds of yards from the shore.

Al planned on waiting a few seconds, hesitant to interrupt his boss' meditation. Nonetheless, his boss asked, "Is he here?"

Shutting the door behind him, Al said, "Yes."

Al's boss nodded, then turned around and looked at him with haunted and intense dark eyes. "Have him come in."

Al looked back and strided towards his boss. Settling a few feet in front of him, Al said in a quiet voice, "He actually has a small entourage, Michael. A secretary and a butler he insists on bringing in."

Michael stared at Al for a few seconds, cocked his head, and shrugged, "That's fine."

As Michael walked towards his desk chair, Al asked, "Are you sure, Michael?" Looking towards the closed door, he added, "The dame seems harmless, but I'm not sure about the butler. Some big Oriental guy. Looks like a wrestler."

Michael picked up his grey suit jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. "Just stay here while they're in the room. I'm sure you can handle him if he tries anything. Somehow, I doubt he would, at least if his secretary's around. My client today is different from the people I usually see here, and I want to keep things congenial."

Al nodded, walking back to the door and opening it. Michael heard a muffled, "Mr. Corleone will see you now." Within a few moments, a short and slightly rotund orange-haired man in a brown suit and black bow tie entered the room.

Walking towards the man, Michael said with cautious cordiality, "Mr. Goldfinger. A pleasure to meet you."

Looking closely at the lapel on Goldfinger's jacket, Michael could almost swear that it was stitched with thin strands of gold.

Taking Michael's outstretched hand, Goldfinger replied with almost exaggerated conviviality, "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Corleone. Thank you for allowing me to come out here." To Goldfinger's left stood a woman wearing a pale yellow skirt and jacket, with straight blond hair that fell over her shoulders. To his right, a stocky mustachioed man in a butler uniform, with a bowler hat tucked under his right arm.

Al closed the door.

Letting go of Michael's hand as he turned towards the woman, Goldfinger said, "This is my secretary, Jill Masterson."

Smiling at Michael, Jill leaned forward and offered her hand to him. With a voice that put Al in mind of a British version of the recently deceased Marilyn Monroe, she asked, "How do you do, Mr. Corleone?"

Michael took her hand. "I do good... Well."

Still smiling, Jill nodded at Michael. "I'm sure you do both."

"Heh," Goldfinger ejaculated. "As you can see, Mr. Corleone, Miss Masterson has quite a way with words."

Jill noticeably blinked twice, her smile fading slightly.

Turning to the man at his right, Goldfinger said, "And this is my manservant, Oddjob."

Letting go of Jill's hand, Michael turned to Oddjob. Michael offered his hand, but Goldfinger's manservant only smirked at him.

With a chuckle, Goldfinger added, "Oh, I forgot to mention, Mr. Corleone. Oddjob doesn't shake hands. His grip is quite powerful, as a few people have been unfortunate enough to find out."

Still eyeing Oddjob, Michael nodded once before turning back to his guest. "Oddjob? What's his real name?"

Goldfinger shrugged. "Some Korean name, I don't remember what. Still, 'Oddjob' seems more appropriate."

Turning to Al, Michael asked, "Al, could you take... Oddjob's hat?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary," Goldfinger interjected "He likes to keep it with him at all times." He paused and turned to Oddjob. "We all have our little idiosyncracies, eh?"

"Does he understand English?" Michael asked.

"Oddjob is mute," Goldfinger said. "Besides, he doesn't have to say anything. He does what I tell him, no questions asked." Turning to Jill, Goldfinger added, "If only you could take lessons from him, Miss Masterson."

As if by magic, Jill's smile returned. "Yes, Mr. Goldfinger."

Goldfinger laughed. "I take back what I said, then. Perhaps you could teach him _that_."

As Goldfinger spoke, Michael turned to Al, nodding for him to stand next to the desk. Al nodded back and took his position. Turning back to his guest, Michael said, "Now that we're done with the pleasantries, I think we should get to business."

"Oh, yes. Of course," Goldfinger replied amiably.

Indicating a chair facing his desk, Michael said, "Please, have a seat. I'm sorry I didn't have additional chairs set up. I was only expecting you."

"I'll get two more," Al said, walking away from the desk to grab two more chairs in the office.

After settling into his chair, Goldfinger looked out the window. "Magnificent view you have of Lake Tahoe."

"Yes," Jill added, turning to Michael as he settled into his desk chair. "It is quite lovely."

"You get used to it over time," Michael said. "Unfortunately, every so often, it brings back memories of the time my brother drowned."

Al set a chair behind Jill.

"Oh, dear," Jill said softly as she lowered herself into the seat. "I'm so sorry."

His genial expression giving way to displeasure, Goldfinger turned towards Jill. After looking back at him, she lowered her head.

"My condolences, Mr. Corleone," Goldfinger added with formal sobriety.

"It was over four years ago. He went fishing, and..." Trailing off, Michael made an invisible circle in the air with his right hand.

Jill leaned forward in her chair.

"I'm sorry if that brings back such bad memories for you," Goldfinger said.

Al placed a chair behind Oddjob. Before settling into it, the manservant used both hands to grasp the sides of his bowler, which made an unusual "clunk" as he placed it on Michael's desk. Michael eyed the hat, than gave Al a puzzled look. _A hat isn't supposed to make that kind of a noise._ Michael thought.

Looking at Michael, Goldfinger commented, "I suppose a bowler is highly unusual in this day and age. Hats of all kinds are becoming _passe_, especially with your President Kennedy not wearing one to his inauguration."

Al settled back into his own chair, also eyeing the bowler.

"Well, actually, he did," Michael said. "He took it off during his inaugural speech."

Goldfinger waved his right hand dismissively. "In any case, I wouldn't invest in the hat industry anytime soon." Goldfinger leaned forward in his chair, raising his right index finger. "But gold. _That_ will never go out of style."

As Goldfinger resettled his back against the chair and clasped his hands in front of his gut, Michael said, "I understand you have made quite a fortune from gold."

"I have done quite well with gold, yes. Among other things. Metals manufacturing. Thoroughbreds." Goldfinger lowered his eyebrows. "But gold is my passion, Mr. Corleone. In addition to bringing one wealth and power, it is the most beautiful and rarest of metals. I like to surround myself with gold. If I could, I would build a palace out of gold." He shrugged. "Pardon my indulgence in hyperbole. What I am saying is, I will do business with anyone who can help me increase my stock in gold." Goldfinger paused. "I come to you, Mr. Corleone, because you seem like the kind of man who could assist in my endeavor."

"I was thinking in terms of a partnership," Michael said.

"Oh, it would be. I assure you."

"My plan is to divest my gambling interests, and to use the money to invest in gold."

Goldfinger cocked his head slightly. "I think we need to clarify the finer points of what I have in mind, Mr. Corleone." He turned to Jill. "Miss Masterson. Could you step outside for a while?"

Jill stood from her chair. "Yes, Mr. Goldfinger."

"Al," Michael said. "Please escort Miss Masterson out."

After nodding silently, Al walked to Jill and accompanied her to the door. As Al opened it, Jill turned her head back towards Michael for a moment. He noticed that she appeared a bit less convivial than she had let on initially. As Michael scrutinized Jill's face further, he thought that he could sense fear, perhaps even pleading, in her pale blue eyes.

Michael tried to imagine what might have prompted Jill's fear. As head of the Corleone family, he had seen such an expression quite a few times. Michael always took it as a sign that the bearer had transgressed against him, and that he needed to act against them. His external enemies never gave him the chilling benefit of seeing their fear. Variations of that grimace always appeared to his enforcers, right before they summarily executed those who had crossed their Godfather. Instead, Michael saw it in his internal enemies. Carlo. Fredo. Even Kay, who, unlike the other two, did not pay the ultimate price. But Jill seemed like a special case. Perhaps she had plans to sabotage the deal Michael was about to make with Goldfinger, but she sensed that he was not a man to cross. That she was in the presence of a man who could crush her easily, just as he had crushed others who had gotten in his way.

Until the door shut behind Al and Jill, Michael fixed a stone-faced expression in their direction.

"Lovely girl, Miss Masterson" Goldfinger commented. "What we are about to discuss might be too much for her."

Turning towards Goldfinger, Michael asked, "Why did you bring her in, then?"

"That is of no consequence. I think we have reached the point where we need to discuss the purpose of my visit."

"I thought we were already doing that." Indicating Oddjob, Michael asked, "And why not have him step out? It only seems fair since I asked Al to leave with Miss Masterson."

Oddjob turned to Goldfinger, who shrugged his shoulders. "Okay." He looked at Oddjob and nodded towards the door, prompting the manservant to stand up and walk towards it. After Oddjob exited, Goldfinger added, "As you can see, Mr. Corleone, I am a fair and reasonable man. Just like your father before you."

"You know about my father?"

"Let's just say, I'm not the only one who has done his research."

"I'm sure you and he could have shared some interesting stories about being immigrants."

"Immigrating from Latvia to England at age 20 is not quite the same as immigrating from Sicily to New York at age nine, Mr. Corleone. And, despite its color, olive oil is not on a par with gold, or with the range of investments I have made."

"What you have accomplished is quite impressive, Mr. Goldfinger. But my father did very well for himself."

"I'm sorry if I have offended you, Mr. Corleone. Besides, I already know that he was shrewd enough to have a diverse range of, shall we say, investments."

"He was an olive oil importer."

"I think we both know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Mr. Corleone." Goldfinger paused for a moment before continuing. "Bootlegging. Union corruption." Another pause. "And then there's gambling."

"Gambling is legal in Nevada."

"Oh, yes. Of course. I have visited a casino or two here myself, in fact. But some your own connections in that area have died rather violently."

Elbows on his desk, Michael folded his hands. His eyes had widened only slightly, but he felt as though they had bulged out of his head. "Where have you heard this?"

"From others in your illustrious profession. A few of them told me about you unprompted. I can sense that they fear you, or they at least respect your power."

"I'm flattered," Michael said sardonically. "But, with all due respect, why would you trust the word of a bunch of hoodlums? They are not men of honor."

Goldfinger chuckled. "And you are, Mr. Corleone? Your father was a man of honor?" Rubbing his eyes with the index finger and thumb of his right hand, he added, "I can hardly think of a better way to justify murder."

"I've never killed anyone."

Resting his right hand in his lap, Goldfinger replied, "Oh, of course not. Your _soldiers_ killed Moe Greene. Emilio Barzini. Hyman Roth. Perhaps others. Of course, that cannot be proven. Especially if one has connections to a certain hatless Commander-in-Chief."

"You do what you have to do to protect your family."

"Too bad we can't ask your brother who drowned. He might have told me more."

Michael's intertwined fingers rubbed slowly around each other.

"Relax, Mr. Corleone. I'm simply here to do a business deal. Not much different from others you have done in the past, but with a much higher return on your investment."

"I'm not interested. Especially if you're soliciting assistance from hoodlums."

"This is a 'golden' opportunity. Pardon the expression, literal though it may be. Many of your colleagues in the underworld have already expressed interest in my offer." After a pause, Goldfinger added, "For instance, I have already spoken about this with your friend 'The Napper.'"

_"Solo?"_ Michael asked incredulously, recalling previous dealings with the New York-based mob boss. "The man is a no good, double-crossing swindler."

"And you wouldn't want him to get a piece of the action on the next big thing, while you get nothing. Would you, Mr. Corleone?"

"You don't understand, Mr. Goldfinger. I'm not interested in..."

"You are a smart man, Mr. Corleone. That's one of the reasons why I wanted to meet with you. How many mob bosses have attended an Ivy League school? How many have played the game as well as you? All I ask is that you..."

"All I ask, is that you leave."

Looking back at Michael's stoic stare, Goldfinger blurted, "One thousand percent."

Michael shook his head slowly at Goldfinger's bait. "You don't understand. I agreed to meet with you because I thought that we could make a legitimate business deal. Not to get in on some scheme that already sounds fishy, never mind outlandish. You insult my integrity _and_ my intelligence, Mr. Goldfinger."

"And you don't understand, Mr. Corleone, that you could make _one thousand per-cent_ of your share for delivery of goods and services, once my plan is executed."

Michael got up and started walking to the door. "That doesn't even make any sense."

"A guaranteed upfront payment of one million dollars." Goldfinger turned his head as Michael passed him. "Ten million when I execute my plans. You are the only one who knows of this offer."

Michael opened the door. Turning to Goldfinger, he quietly said, "Get out."

Sitting across from each other at a table outside the office, Al and Jill turned to look into the room. Oddjob stood in a corner, his hands clasped in front of him as he held his bowler.

Goldfinger furrowed his brow. "You're making a huge mistake."

"And you're making one if you don't leave."

Getting up from the chair, Goldfinger pushed it back hard enough to make it fall to the ground. As Al quickly got up from his own chair, Michael turned around and shook his head at him. Jill also stood up, while Oddjob started walking towards the entrance to the office.

Striding quickly to the door, Goldfinger walked up to Michael. Raising the index finger of his right hand and pointing it at Michael, Goldfinger said, "You don't realize with whom you are dealing, Mr. Corleone. Like you, I have had my share of enemies. But I also have excellent people to protect me from them."

As Goldfinger walked out of the office, Michael said, "I just want you to get out of my house, and to take your business elsewhere." He turned to Al. "Make sure they leave here safely."

As Al nodded and walked towards Goldfinger to escort him out, Oddjob and Jill joined them. Looking with confusion at her boss, she asked, "Mr. Goldfinger? Are we leaving already? What's going on?"

"That is none of your concern," Goldfinger replied. "Let's just say that Mr. Corleone wouldn't know a golden opportunity if one landed on his head."

* * *

Sitting in shirtsleeves in his office chair, Michael wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Al walked into the office. "They're gone now, Michael," he said, closing the door.

"Good." After a few moments, he added, "He said something about talking to other families, which is how he decided to talk with me." Michael shrugged. "Why would someone like Auric Goldfinger want to get involved with the mob over here, anyway?"

"Some international scheme?"

"Unless he just wants to set up something here in the U.S."

"Maybe something to do with horse racing. He has that stud farm in Kentucky."

Michael leaned back in his chair. "Why would someone with his business acumen claim that I could make a thousand percent of a flat fee of one million dollars for my services to him?"

"Huh?" Al asked.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too. It's so outlandish, it sounds like he's involved in something suspicious. Maybe Goldfinger is becoming delusional, or desperate, and he's turning to the mob for something here."

Al reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, taking out a folded slip of paper. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, handing it to Michael. "The dame gave this to me."

Taking the paper and unfolding it, Michael looked at it for a few seconds.

_Floria's  
7 P.M. tonite_

"Miss Masterson wants to meet me there?"

Al shrugged. "I guess so."

Setting the paper on his desk, Michael said, "I figured she was Goldfinger's secretary, in the euphemistic sense."

"Probably eye candy to show his status. Why else would he bring her in here, and then ask her to leave?"

Michael folded his hands, pressing his chin against the tops of his fingers. Slowly and deliberately, he said, "Maybe to see if I..." Michael stopped.

"Like the merchandice?" Al proffered.

Michael shook his head slowly. "But he has already played his hand. If Goldfinger put her up to this, his trap would seem pretty obvious." After a pause, Michael added, "When you were taking her to the door, she gave me this look. One I hadn't seen since..."

Michael stopped. Al nodded.

"But what if that's part of some ploy?" Michael asked.

"_Anything_ could be a ploy," Al reminded him.

Leaning back in his chair, Michael said, "Then let's have one of our own at the ready. Floria's is pretty safe, though I think you and a few other men should come along. Just in case."

Al stared at Michael. "You really want to go through with this?"

Michael nodded. "If Miss Masterson is planning something, I can do the same with her. There's something strange about what Goldfinger proposed. Whatever I find out, I have a feeling that Bobby would be very interested in hearing about it. Especially if Goldfinger has begun making deals with other families."

"You think you've cultivated enough good will with the A.G. to do this?"

"I've defeated my enemies before, Al, and I can do it again." Michael folded his hands in front of his face. "This time through legitimate means. If Miss Masterson gives me what I want."

* * *


	2. Vissi d'amore

A few minutes after 7:00 in the evening, the _maitre d'_ at Floria's saw Michael Corleone walk into the restaurant. "_Buonasera_, sir. You have a reservation this evening?"

"It's under Coral," Michael said.

Looking at the reservation register, the _maitre d'_ said, "Funny. There's a woman who made a reservation for about the same time, meeting a man with a last name not unlike yours."

"Masterson?" Michael asked.

After glancing at the podium for a few seconds, the _maitre d'_ replied, "Someone by that name came here just a few minutes ago." He looked back up at Michael, nodding once and smiling. Leaning towards Michael, he added _sotto voce_, "Discretion is among the utmost of our special services, Mr... Coral. Especially mine."

Annoyed at the _maitre d_'s obsequious _mauvemail_, Michael said, "It isn't that kind of meeting."

"Of course," the _maitre d'_ repeated, this time as a sentence. Grabbing a menu and motioning for Michael to follow him, he added, "At least, that's what I hear from men meeting attractive, well-put-together blondes."

"It's a business meeting," Michael said.

"I rest my case."

_God, I'm glad I didn't get Sonny's temper_, Michael thought as they progressed towards the table.

"Right here, sir," the _maitre d'_ said when they arrived at Jill's table, motioning for Michael to sit in the other chair.

Jill looked up from her menu. "Michael! I was wondering if you'd gotten my note."

Taking his seat as the _maitre d'_ set the menu in front of him, Michael replied, "Al handed it to me." After Michael settled into his chair, he asked, "Now that we're both here, Miss Masterson, what is it that you wanted to discuss with me?"

"And they say we British are the uptight ones, _Mr._ Corleone," Jill replied, teasingly chiding him. After a brief pause, she quickly added, "Not to imply that you're a snob, of course."

"No, of course not," Michael said, already studying the menu. "As your boss has probably told you already, my father was an immigrant from Sicily."

"He did not, actually."

"Well, in any case, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth."

"Maybe it's a growth."

Michael set down his menu, to see Jill smiling at him. "A _growth_?"

Noticing Michael's stony expression, Jill stopped smiling and looked back at her menu. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to break to ice."

"I hope you aren't trying to break something else."

"Oh, _now_ you're trying to be funny?"

"I just want to know why you want to meet with me, Miss Masterson."

"I wanted to talk with you."

Michael nodded. "Good. Then you can tell Mr. Goldfinger that I'm not interested in his offer. Whatever it is."

"What are you talking about?"

"Miss Masterson. I know that he still wants to bring me in on his deal, and I'm not interested."

"Are you questioning my motives for wanting to meet you?" Jill asked. "You think I'm trying to lure you into a trap?"

"You said it, not me."

A skinny man in black pants, white shirt, and black suspenders and bowtie materialized near the table. Wielding a pitcher of ice water, he started pouring it into the stemmed water glasses to the right of Michael and Jill. "Good evening. My name is Gianni, and I will be your waiter for the evening. Can I interest sir and madam in some wine?"

"No thank you," Michael said.

"I'm still deciding what to eat," Jill replied.

Gianni nodded. "Of course. Our specials this evening include a Spring primavera dish, as well as shrimp scampi with linguini and cream sauce."

"Thank you," Michael said.

"I will return in a few minutes."

Jill watched as Gianni walked away, then turned to Micheal. "Now, about this 'trap.' If I wanted to do that, I wouldn't have suggested it. When I gave Al the note, I didn't know what was going on in your office." After a short hesitation, Jill added, "I just wanted to talk with you."

"About what?"

"I don't know. I just like to get out on my own sometimes. Mr. Goldfinger keeps me on a tight leash, so to speak, so I never get to see anyone."

"I thought he was your boyfriend."

"He likes to be seen with me. He's rich, but he doesn't have much else. You know? I'm just eye candy, which I guess is a good thing for him since he... He can't."

"Can't _what_?" Michael asked, puzzled.

"I guess you don't have the same problem."

Michael understood what Jill was implying about her boss. "Look. I don't know what kind of man you think I am..."

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Michael. But, I'm just saying that chubby, fair-complexioned men aren't really my type." Resting an elbow on the table, Jill leaned forward and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. "I prefer men of darker complexion."

Michael noticed that Jill's eyelids had lowered. Beneath them, her pale blue eyes seemed to smile at him. Almost like the slightly upturned curves of the bright scarlet band Jill had painted on her lips.

"I know you're trying to figure out what to do, Michael," Jill continued. "I've seen that look before. In Mr. Goldfinger's eyes. Only in your case, I don't think you're plotting to acquire more gold."

Trying to maintain the measured tones he had cultivated for business meetings, Michael said, "Jill. I don't know what to tell you. I'm flattered by what you say, but I don't know..."

"Don't know what?"

Turning away, Michael looked towards the stage located at the back of the restaurant. A microphone stood by itself, awaiting the singers who would come up to it later. "You're an attractive lady. I don't think anyone can disagree with that. But, I still don't understand why you wanted to meet me here..."

"_Michael_," she interrupted, lowering her forearm and hand to the table.

Ignoring the hurt tone in Jill's voice, Michael continued speaking. "And even if it isn't some deal you want to discuss, I'm not interested in anything with you."

Still looking at Michael, Jill said, "All right. That's fine. That hurts much less than you thinking that I'm trying to deceive you."

"So, what's your point?"

In a more determined tone of voice, Jill asked."What kind of woman _do_ you want?"

Michael stared blankly at Jill for a few seconds. "I'm not interested in that anymore, Jill. I was married for ten years, and it... It didn't work. That's all I can say."

"You loved her, didn't you?"

"Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"Why are you still talking to me?"

Michael sighed. "I'm not telling you much. I'm telling you more than I've told anyone else, though."

Jill nodded. "I know you're rather reserved. The opposite of Mr. Goldfinger, even if you're both cunning. He's the showman. You seem to prefer being behind the scenes."

"So, you _do_ want me to make a deal with him."

Jill started shaking her head. "That's not what I meant at all...."

"You think I'd make a good complement to Goldfinger. To aid in executing his scheme, whatever it is."

"No, Michael," she protested. "What I'm trying to tell you is, I also prefer the more quiet type. If you're not interested in reciprocating, I understand. But you shouldn't give up on being with someone, whether it's me or someone else, just because your marriage didn't work. Believe me." She paused. "I know it's presumptuous of me to say that, especially with you being quite a few years older than me. Not that you're old or anything. You're still younger than Mr. Goldfinger. I've been with men who were bad for me. But my sister was already working for him, and she suggested that I meet Mr. Goldfinger. How could I resist, especially with his money? He didn't even expect me to do much of anything with him."

"Much of anything?"

Leaning towards Michael, Jill added in a quieter voice, "Well, actually, there is one queer thing about him. He likes to have women dance nude for him. But, the thing is, they are painted gold. Sometimes when he has special guests. Sometimes when he is alone. For that, he has me around so he can keep his hands free. You know."

"Sounds pretty sick to me," Michael said.

"But what I'm trying to tell you, Michael, is that I hold out hope for someone better. Someone who can at least treat me kindly. And maybe you can find someone, too."

"I'm not sure I deserve that chance," Michael said. "I didn't always treat Kay as well as I should have."

"Who?"

"She... Kay. My wife." Quickly, he corrected himself. "Former wife. There were good times when we were dating. But my father had gotten seriously hurt in an accident, and the family business started taking over my life."

"Were you married, then?" Jill asked, leaning back in her chair.

"No. But I had to go to Sicily for over a year. Kay had no idea what had happened, and I didn't see her again until months after I came back. I surprised her one day outside the school where she was teaching, and I told her that I wanted to get back together with her. There isn't much else to say beyond that. We got married, and then we were divorced within a decade."

"Any children?"

"Two. A boy and a girl."

"What are their names?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because you've been talking to me for quite a while, even though you could have easily left. And you're a man with enough power that someone like Mr. Goldfinger is interested in making a deal with you. "

"What has Goldfinger told you about me?"

"Not much. Just that you're a very smart business man. That's his words, not mine." Jill paused. "Not to say that you're not smart..."

"I understand what you mean, Jill."

Michael felt surprise at what he said. Not at its content, but at how he felt when he said it. Almost like the way he spoke with Kay when he started courting her.

"Mr. Goldfinger told me you went to Dartmouth, and fought with honor during the War. Where was that?"

"Pacific Theater."

"I was just a little girl during the War," Jill said. "I'm afraid I didn't do anything terribly brave."

"We didn't have the Germans knocking on our door, though," Michael said. "That and getting through post-War privations had to have taken courage."

"I'm afraid I don't remember very much, at least until later in the War."

"I remember too much," Michael said. "I got the Silver Star for bravery."

"How?"

"Just doing what I had to do in order to survive." Michael paused. "I'd rather not talk about it, actually."

Jill nodded. "I'm sure you looked good in uniform, though."

"It was about the service, not about the uniform."

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to..."

"No need to apologize."

"What about your children? Their names?"

"A boy, Anthony, and a girl, Mary."

"Beautiful names. They sound typically Italian."

"Pardon?"

"I didn't mean any disrespect, Michael. I love Italy and its culture."

"I'm Sicilian," Michael said. "I'm not so sure about you liking Italy."

"Oh." Jill said.

"I'm kidding, Jill. Is that why you wanted to meet here?"

"What?"

"You probably figured I'd like Italian food."

"It's just a very lovely restaurant. Mr. Goldfinger took me here last night, and I wanted to come back since we're only in town for a few days."

"What do you recommend?" Michael asked.

"A man of Sicilian blood, asking an English girl?"

Michael smiled slightly. "We're in an Italian restaurant, so we're even." He added, "I knew a guy who made the best spaghetti sauce. He threw in anything you could think of. He showed me how to do it one time, but I don't remember it."

"You didn't pay attention?"

"Half of what he did was show. He was a gregarious guy."

"Maybe you could ask him again."

"He passed away several years ago. Heart attack."

"That's too bad."

"Yes. He was one of father's friends many years ago in New York. But, back to dinner. I still want to know what you recommend."

"How about spaghetti and meatballs? As a tribute to your friend. What was his name?"

"Peter."

"Yes. Spaghetti and meatballs. As a tribute to Peter."

Michael examined the menu. "I'm a little surprised they have it on here. I'd heard that practically everything is at least ten dollars."

"That's good. It's one of the few things on this menu I can pronounce."

"If you go to Italy, you'll need to learn a lot more."

"Maybe you could teach me some Italian?" Jill asked hopefully. "It might help me understand the singing here at least."

"I saw that they had a stage here," Michael observed "Did they do anything last night?"

"It was opera. I couldn't understand what they were singing, but it was very beautiful."

Michael shook his head. "If you believe what they say about Italians, or Sicilians for that matter, I'm one of the few who doesn't care much for opera."

"Whenever I hear it, I always feel... I don't know. Moved, I guess. What they were singing last night was by a... a Putanelli?"

"Probably Puccini." Michael replied. "I don't listen to opera, but I've heard enough people talk about him."

"I asked Mr. Goldfinger if he would take me sometime, but he said that he was too busy to even think about going to an opera. I would enjoy it more than watching his dancing girls, though. But, that's more for him, and he's the boss."

"Maybe he'd enjoy an opera with dancing girls painted gold."

Jill smiled. "That's true. I wish I knew more about opera so I could trick him into taking me to one."

"Goldfinger sounds like an opera character himself," Michael added.

"I'm afraid I don't know much about male singers. Except for Caruso, and he's dead." Giggling slightly, Jill added, "If he was a woman, Goldfinger would probably be like that singer Callas. She's supposed to be quite dramatic from what I read in the glossies." She leaned towards Michael. "She's dating Aristotle Onassis, you know."

"Really? It's a shame. Knowing him, he's probably using her as decoration."

"Michael. That's cruel."

"What?" Michael looked at Jill, when the realization hit him. "Oh. I didn't mean... Jill. I..."

"What did you mean by that then?"

"These guys that like to throw their wealth around, collecting women like trophies. Treating them like pieces of meat, rather than putting them on a pedestal. Like they deserve."

"Look. I know that Goldfinger doesn't love me, Michael. I'm well aware that I need to find someone else." Jill paused. "Maybe Tilly has the right idea."

"Who's Tilly?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just... Look, Jill. I'm sorry for what I said. All right? I just haven't had a conversation like this in a while. It's always been about business." Michael paused. "Kay and I used to talk like this before we started drifting apart."

"You miss it?"

Michael looked towards the entrance. "I don't know."

"I think you do. What did you used to do with her?"

"After I came back from the war, we'd go to the movies a lot. I don't do that so much anymore." Michael turned away. "This Tilly you were talking about. Who's she?"

"My sister. Do you have a sister?"

"Constanza. We just call her Connie. She was born after me. You said you have one?"

Jill smiled flirtatiously. "Yes, but she's taken."

"I see," Michael said. "I hope her boyfriend or husband treats her well."

Jill turned slightly away from Michael.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Actually... How do I put it? Tilly doesn't like men."

"What do you mean?"

Jill looked around the restaurant in a conspiratorial manner, leaned towards Michael, and whispered, "She's a lesbian."

"Oh. Then I really wouldn't have a chance with her."

Jill smiled. "I think you're warming up to me, Mr. Corleone."

Michael nodded. "I'm lucky to have a sister, especially since I lost two brothers."

"Two?" Jill asked with some surprise. "I know about your brother who drowned. What happened to the other one?"

"He was gunned down."

"Oh, dear. Was it during the War?"

Michael hesitated. "Yes," he finally replied. "It was an ambush. His name was Santino, but we all called him Sonny. He was only 32. Freddie had just turned 40 when he drowned. I'm the only one of the brothers left, so I have to carry on the family legacy." Michael stared towards an undefined point beyond the confines of the restaurant. "There are times I wish things were like they used to be. Before everything that happened with the family. Before I lost friends, family. I want the past, but with Anthony and Mary as a part of it. Lots of things aren't the same now. I can't even go to the movies without thinking about Kay."

"That might not be such a bad thing, the way movies have been getting," Jill said. "Did you ever see _Psycho_?"

"No. I heard that movie was pretty sick."

"You know what happened to Janet Leigh, right?"

Michael nodded. "I'd heard about it. Nothing I'd want to see."

"I don't know how they could top a movie death like that, without the movies going all mad," Jill commented. "It just makes the blood run cold, thinking about her getting chopped up mercilessly in that shower."

"Hey," Michael said, "you're going to make us both lose our appetites."

"Sorry. I still can't over that a Hitchcock movie would have something like that. His movies are usually classy, but this one seemed dead common."

"Sounds right up your boss' alley."

"He jokingly said something about how he could have improved on dumping the car into the swamp."

"Based on my meeting with him, I would expect no less."

"I actually wouldn't put it past him, Michael."

"I thought Mr. Goldfinger was a legitimate business man."

Gianni appeared at the table. His eyes darted apprehensively between Michael and Jill before he asked, "Have sir and madam decided?"

Michael motioned to Jill.

"Yes. I'll have the spaghetti and meatballs," Jill said.

"All right," Gianni replied, scribbling on the billpad. "And for you, sir?"

"The shrimp scampi."

"Any drinks for you and madam?"

"What do you think, Jill?"

"Madam looks as though she would like a Dom Perignon '53," Gianni stammered.

"That sounds delightful," Jill commented. "What do you think, Michael?"

"A bottle?" Gianni strongly suggested in the form of a question.

"That will be fine," Michael said.

"Very good. I will be back shortly with the bottle and your salads."

As Gianni dashed to another part of the restaurant, Jill said, "I hope it wasn't too much of an imposition to order the Dom Perignon. You didn't seem too excited."

"Sorry. It isn't that. I'm just not a wine connoisseur."

"Oh. What were we talking about, anyway?"

"Goldfinger. Legitimate businessman."

"Well, he is, as far as I know," Jill said. "But he never tells me anything. Men's work, he always says. Especially lately. It's like he keeps shutting me out. He's a lot more distant than when I first met him."

"I'm sorry," Michael said.

"It isn't your fault, Michael. Mr. Goldfinger's just been acting different lately. All these meetings..."

"So, why don't you?"

"Some of it is that Tilly works for him. She wants to make sure I don't get hurt. Plus, she's become 'close friends' with Mr. Goldfinger's personal pilot."

Picking up on Jill's _close friends_ emphasis, Michael said, "I thought Tilly preferred women."

"Oh, she does. Mr. Goldfinger's pilot is a woman."

"I understand the value of keeping family close. But, even with Tilly's involvment in Goldfinger's inner circle, why can't you make your own life? Is it the money?"

Looking slightly to the side, Jill said, "It's much more than that. I know he can get quite aggressive in his dealings, and that he always insists on having his own way." She looked at Michael. "Some who displease him end up disappearing mysteriously."

"Do you think he'd do something to you, based on that comment he made about _Psycho_?"

"I don't know. It's something I worry about all the time. I guess it's one of those situations where, once you get in, it's hard to get out."

Michael nodded, starting to stroke his chin.

"As you might imagine, I am taking a big risk coming here," Jill added. "Mr. Goldfinger lets me out every so often, but he gets incredibly jealous if I even look at another man."

Gianni appeared at the table with the bottle of Dom Perignon and two goblets on a cart. "Here you go, sir and madam," he said, setting a goblet in front of Michael and Jill. After grabbing the bottle, Gianni started turning the corkscrew, "I'll do the first glass, then sir can pour for his lady friend."

"Thank you," Michael said, watching as Gianni filled his goblet.

Gianni placed an ice bucket in the middle of the table afterwards, then placed the bottle inside the rim. "Your salads should be ready shortly."

As Jill offered her glass to Michael, he asked, "What were you saying about Goldfinger's meetings?"

"Just that he has had a lot of them lately, and his clientele seems different from usual. A bunch of hoodlums, if you want the truth. No class. You, being and exception, of course. But I don't like it, really. I wish I could get away."

After filling Jill's glass, Michael withdrew the bottle and set it in the ice bucket. "Maybe you can. I'm close friends with someone who might be able to initiate investigations into Mr. Goldfinger's dealings with these people you're talking about."

"Oh, Michael. Are you sure? I don't want it to get back to Goldfinger that I..."

"Not a problem. No one has to know. And if the proper domestic authorities won't get involved, perhaps others will."

"Like who?"

"Maybe the CIA, especially since Goldfinger is not a U.S. citizen. Something has to be done to stop him and his dealings with these people you mention."

"But who's this person you know?"

Michael cocked his head. "Bobby..."

At that point, the lights in the restaurant suddenly began to dim. Michael's posture stiffened, his eyes widening, nostrils flaring, and mouth clenching into a defensive frown.

_And it never stops_, Michael thought, hoping that Al would know how to handle whatever situation was developing.

And that Jill would not get hurt.

_**(Next Chapter... Te Deum)**_


	3. Te Deum

"Michael?" What is it?" Jill asked.

"_They dimmed the lights_," he whispered in response.

"Of course they have. That means the show is about to start."

"Show?" Michael asked. "What show?"

"The one I was telling you about. Where they perform opera."

His panic beginning to subside, Michael muttered, "Oh."

Jill remained confused. "What did you think it was?"

Michael hesitated. "Just… just a joke. You know, like in the movies? The lights go down, something bad is about to happen."

Nodding, Jill said, "I see. You had me worried for a minute."

_I know the feeling_, Michael thought.

On the stage at the back of the dining area, a middle-aged man stepped into the spotlight that had appeared during the panic Michael tried hiding from Jill. "Ladies and gentlemen," the man boomed into the microphone, "many of you are transients here, for a few days of good clean fun."

As silverware respectfully clattered on plates, some guffaws obliged the man onstage.

"Maybe you don't know who I am. I'm Joey Giulini, owner of Floria's, and I think this is the finest Italian eating establishment in all of Reno. Don't you agree?"

A few claps, accompanied by a few exaggerated boos.

Turning in the direction of the jeerers, Joey said, "That's my cooking staff."

A few more laughs.

"All I can says to them, is they can go cook themselves."

Even more laughter, enabling Joey to build up the mood he tried establishing. Although Jill seemed amused, Michael did not join in. Mr. Giulini's monologue seemed like little more than a "Goomba act," providing a cold simulacrum of the genuine warmth he witnessed within his own family... back when he had one.

"Anyways," Joey continued, "in keeping with the fine food and atmosphere at Floria's, we thought we'd give you some fine entertainment, too. Made possible by the stingy wages paid to the wait staff, which you should tip generously."

"They go in your pocket!" someone shouted.

"Yeah? So does your wife."

More laughter.

"But seriously," Joey continued, "tonight's entertainment is gonna give you some genuine excitement. Highlights from Giacomo Puccini's _Tosca_, the main character of which is the namesake for this fine establishment." Indicating the two pianos flanking the stage, he added, "Normally we have one piano, but we'll need two tonight. You know why?"

"Two pianos are better than one?" a seemingly disembodied voice hollered from elsewhere in the restaurant.

"That's what your wife says," Joey replied, prompting the audience to laugh its loudest.

Michael remained aloof, adding Joey's borderline blue material to his mental list of reasons to dislike the monologue.

"But seriously, we need them tonight because we're doing the _Te Deum_. Which, for those of you who've never had your knuckles rapped, more or less means, 'Praise God.' And, if John XXIII has his way, everyone will just be saying that."

A smaller number of people laughed.

"Jeez. Must be thesis-nailer night," Joey commented.

"The two pianos," yet another person shouted.

"Yeah. Like I was saying, the two pianos are to simulate the orchestra and chorus of the _Te Deum_. We don't do this very often, so it's a treat just for you."

"About once a week," the same heckler pointed out loudly.

"Just like your wife," Joey replied.

_How many plants and 'your wife' lines does this guy have?_ Michael wondered to himself.

"Anyway, you paid for a classy atmosphere, and that's just what you're getting. We thought we'd start with the exciting part first, being the _Te Deum_, just so you can stay awake. This is where Scarpia, the corrupt chief of police, _which we don't have here (sotto voce)_, plots to get Tosca all to himself. "

When Joey began introducing the pianists, as well as the young music students portraying Scarpia and (briefly) his minion Spoletta, Jill noticed Michael's poker-faced reception of the proceedings. "Michael?" Jill asked, looking concerned, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Just taking everything in."

"Aren't you having a good time?"

Still staring at the stage, Michael said, "It's good to get out every so often. Whether I'm 'having a good time' doesn't matter."

Jill inched her chair closer to Michael. "Is there anything I can do? _Anything?_ Maybe after we leave. Go back to your house?"

Michael finally turned towards Jill. "Look. Jill. I'm not Mr. Goldfinger. You don't have to do anything to make me happy. Besides which, you have chosen to be with him."

The introduction of the performers over, one of the pianos had begun simulating the opening of the _Te Deum._

Jill looked at Michael, surprised by his rebuff.

_Tre sbirri, una carrozza…_, began Scarpia.

Jill finally said, "It turned out not to have been an easy choice, which has become more apparent by the day. Mr. Goldfinger gives me money, and that's all."

"And what do you think I can give? More money?"

_Sta bene. Il convegno?_ Spoletta asked his boss.

_Palazzo Farnese_, Scarpia replied, prompting Spoletta's departure.

One piano mimicked the ethereally tense orchestra, while the other softly imitated the bells of the Church of Sant'Andrea della Valle.

"Mr. Goldfinger has that already. I'm thinking of other things. Love. A family."

Michael stared skeptically at Jill.

_Va', Tosca! Nel tuo cor s'annida Scarpia!_

"You think it's that easy? That love and family will solve everything?" Michael asked.

"It's got to be better than this life I've been living."

_Va', Tosca!_

"Love and family are illusions, Jill. Illusions of a past that can't be recaptured."

"Don't you think we'd be happy together?"

Michael turned away. "I don't know."

"Then why not try letting me into your heart?"

Michael turned back to Jill. "All those movies you've watched and romance novels you've read. Is that where you get these ideas? Your conversation is sounding more and more like a cliché."

Stunned, Jill stared at Michael. Her voice quaking slightly, she said, "Just because you have completely turned your heart to stone doesn't mean you have to be nasty towards me."

"It's how I survive, Jill. In my business, and with all that has happened with my family, I can't let anyone into my life that closely anymore. You're asking more of me than I can offer."

In the dim light of the restaurant, Michael noticed a thin glistening stream descend from Jill's right eye. Another appeared soon in her left.

"Look, I didn't mean…"

"Yes you did," Jill replied, her voice continuing to quiver with a mixture of anger and sadness. "You meant to be cruel. I suppose that's the only way you men know how to act."

"Please, Jill. Look, I'm sorry."

"And you didn't want to come here in the first place."

Michael sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, Jill, you can come back to my house. I have plenty of room, and I can set you up in one of my guest suites."

"No. We'll finish our dinner, and I'll go back to Mr. Goldfinger when we're done. Just like a good girl."

"A wise decision, Jill," a deep, patrician female voice purred.

Jill's heart abruptly fluttered at the presence of the unexpected visitor.

The pianos began standing in for the chorus:

_Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini_

_Qui fecit coelum et terram_

As Scarpia continued plotting, Michael looked in the same direction. "What?" he asked, turning to see two women and the massive figure of Oddjob. Looking at Jill, he asked, "I recognize Oddjob, but who are these other people?"

Now breathing somewhat irregularly and dabbing at her eyes, Jill said, "My sister, Tilly, and Mr. Goldfinger's pilot."

"I do have a name," said the woman who surprised Jill. "My name is Pussy Galore," she added, "and I'm sure you're already familiar with Oddjob. I'm assuming you're Mr. Corleone."

"Michael Corleone. Yes." His eyes darted back and forth between Pussy and Tilly.

"I know what you're thinking," Pussy said. "Jill must have told you."

"I didn't think you…" Jill started.

Interrupting her sister, Tilly finally spoke. "We were worried sick, Jilly. Mr. Goldfinger thought you were out on your own. Not with another man. What would he think? What would other people think? Knowing that you're with someone else? And someone with whom he had a business deal that fell through?"

"Easy, Tilly," Pussy said.

"Look," Michael said, "if it puts everyone at ease, Jill and I were just having dinner. Nothing more."

"A divorced man? With a big house on Lake Tahoe? With a woman about 15 years his junior?" Tilly asked Michael incredulously. "No one would believe that story. I know I don't." Turning to Jill, she added, "But for your sake, I'll try."

Michael exhaled, rolling his eyes.

Pussy placed a hand on Tilly's shoulder. "Tilly, you know I'm not going to tell. And Mr. Sumo back here can't say a word."

Oddjob maintained the pose he original took upon arrival at the table, looking back and forth among the participants of the conversation.

"So, now what?" Jill asked.

"You're coming with us," Pussy said. "In case someone sees you, and word gets back to Mr. Goldfinger. If it hasn't happened already."

"Wait," Michael said. "We already ordered dinner."

Turning to Michael, Jill sighed. "She's right, Michael. Our dinner has turned out to be unpleasant, and I can't be doing things like this. Besides, I'm all but married to Mr. Goldfinger. Maybe I shouldn't pretend that I can have a life away from him."

"But you can," Michael said.

Her expression turning back to worry, Tilly asked Jill, "What have you been telling Mr. Corleone?"

"Nothing."

"You can tell us," Pussy said.

"Look," Michael said. "Jill. I… "

"What?" Jill asked with resigned frustration.

Michael shook his head. "Just go. I'll get your meal. Don't worry."

Nodding sarcastically, Jill said, "That's easy for you to say."

One of the pianos ended its accompaniment of Scarpia, standing in once again for chorus and church bells as the other piano continued in the role of orchestra:

_Te Deum laudamus:  
Te Dominum confitemur._

Jill turned away from Michael. Combating the protective instinct that had begun to build within him, Michael could only watch as Pussy, Tilly, and Oddjob turned around as well, escorting her from the restaurant.

_Tosca, mi fai dimenticare Iddio!_

Michael allowed himself to collapse back into his chair, resigned to whatever fate awaited Jill.

_Te aeternum Patrem omnis venerator_

The pianos hammered through the rest of the _Te Deum_, prompting a great deal of applause from the audience upon its conclusion. Still slumped in his chair, Michael could not bring himself to join everyone else in the restaurant. Not even out of politeness.

He watched listlessly as Gianni wheeled a cart towards Michael. "Great performance, wasn't it, sir?"

"They did a good job," Michael replied non-committally.

"To be able to replicate an opera like that?"

Joey Giulini reappeared on the stage to begin another heckled spiel about the next _Tosca_ highlight, which would be peppered with marginally fresh "your wife" comebacks.

"Where's your lady friend?" Gianni asked, setting the shrimp scampi in front of Michael.

"She's gone. But could you box up hers? I'll just take it home."

"Of course, sir."

"Thank you," Michael said, staring blankly at the stage as Gianni wheeled away the cart.

_Tre sbirri, una carrozza,  
Presto, seguila dovunque vada…_


	4. Il bacio della morte

**Fontainebleau Hotel**  
**Miami Beach, Florida**  
**September 1964**

Jill's prince had come.

She only knew a few things about him.

The way he charmed her, even if she was startled by his sudden appearance on the balcony of the suite she shared with Mr. Goldfinger.

The cheeky way with which he made her boss stop cheating at gin, finally making him lose to the perpetual self-proclaimed _schlemiel_ Simmons.

The man's stream of witticisms... even the corny ones.

His height. His broad shoulders. His dark features. Probably descended from the Romans when they arrived in the British Isles, or perhaps from refugees of the Spanish Armada. Whatever it was, he had to have heroic, adventurous blood within him.

His name. James.

* * *

Jill lay on her stomach, her feet slowly rubbing against each other in the air. She propped her head on her hands and smiled at the man who had rescued her earlier that day. Rescued her from the strange world she had inhabited for several years with Mr. Goldfinger. A world she described very briefly to Michael Corleone over a year before. A world from which he did not whisk her away.

Her mind drifted back to that day, when she met Mr. Corleone. Perhaps she could have gotten him to open his heart completely to her, but it was impossible. He seemed focused too much on business, whatever it was Goldfinger was considering. Had he been hurt too many times? The tragic deaths of his brothers. His wife and children leaving him. Other friends and family passing on...

_Mais, qu'importe_? That was the past. James had become her present, and would likely be her future. They had already shared a bed that afternoon, bringing forth years of emotions and sensations that she had suppressed for Mr. Goldfinger's sake. Whenever she got around to it, anything she told James about the ways in which she satisfied her employer's proclivities would make no difference.

If he were a warm, kind man, of course.

Considering how he surreptitiously entered Goldfinger's suite, perhaps James was a private investigator who already knew some things about him. Jill had already become concerned about Goldfinger's apparently secretive activities. They remained vague, but she would cooperate in any way she could to help her newly-found prince.

* * *

James walked to the kitchen of the hotel suite to which he had taken Jill. Time for something to drink. Perhaps Dom Perignon '53, chilled to the correct temperature. No higher.

"That's just as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs," he opined for good measure.

A few more new things about James. A connoisseur of fine drink. Not keen on whatever the kids were listening to (though he was somewhere in his mid-30s, anyway). Able to get a suite at one of the best hotels in Miami Beach.

With some drink, and with the informalities now out of the way, she could learn even more about the man whom she had begun to like.

_More than anyone I've met in a long time. James._

A massive shadow fell on the bed in front of Jill.

Before Jill could react, her scream was muffled by a cloth pressed violently against her mouth and nose. Recognizing the strength of the other hand pressing against her, positioned at the bottom of her spine, she knew that struggle would be futile.

For the few seconds she remained conscious, Jill eyed the wall obscuring the kitchen. As everything faded, she hoped that James would come around the corner.

Throw the bottle, maybe.

She would wake up, and find her prince leaning over her...

* * *

_His neck and shoulders stiffened in pain, he winced and rolled to his side as consciousness returned. _

_Staggering as he lifted himself up, he studiously tried avoiding the broken glass of the bottle he dropped when an apparent Judo chop was delieved to the back of his neck. He began to survey the kitchen for any hints about what had happened, walking towards the main room of the suite._

_"Jill?" he called. _

_No answer._

_Maybe she did it as a prank, though showing her knowledge of martial arts seemed a hell of way of getting better acquainted._

_Pushing the thought out of mind, he a began to notice__ a strong odour that had filled the suite. _

_Like paint. _

_But would they be doing that at night? Only Americans would..._

_Peering into the dim light of the main room, he noticed Jill lying on the bed. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. _

_Or..._

_He flipped the room's main light switch._

_During his years with MI6, he had seen many people killed in a number of ways. However, nothing prepared him for the sight of a nude corpse, sparkling brilliantly after having been covered in gold paint. He took a few seconds to take in the reailty of Jill's death, as well as to imagine how exactly it transpired. He also began to contemplate the apparent ruthlessness of the seemingly convivial and jocular man whom he suspected of ordering or committing Jill's murder. Nonetheless, he had to set aside a burgeoning mixture of emotions. Things needed to be done. _

_Confirm that she is dead. _

_C__ontact Felix. _

_Anticipate M's wrath._

_He had gotten quite good at it: No time for tears. _

_He learned that after__ Vesper._


	5. Addio del Passato

**Lake Tahoe  
September 1964  
(One Week Later)**

Michael Corleone's view of Lake Tahoe was the same as the one he had on that infamous day from five years ago. The day he heard the slight pop of a pistol, coming from the same direction as the tiny shadow of a small fishing boat. Soon after, a tinier shadow fell from the boat into the water. Michael saw just enough to know that the job was done. That he had dispensed the necessary punishment to his own flesh and blood, as vengeance for the harm that nearly befell him and his family.

By the time Michael ordered Al Neri to carry out the act of proxy fraticide, the same family he tried protecting had gone. Sonny, shot to death a decade before. Pop and Mama, passed away. Kay, gone with Anthony and Mary. Tom, dismissed for his apparent disloyalty towards Michael. Only Connie was left, desperately latching herself to younger men as she pushed 40.

Of course, Michael did have other family. The kind that had started becoming a jocular colloquialism, ever since those hearings... also five years ago. Although he originally made the promise to get away from that life for Kay's benefit, Michael knew that he also needed to do so for his own sake. That he needed to disassociate himself from the people who kept trying to reel him back into games of chicken that ended in murder.

* * *

The telephone in Michael's office interrupted his ritualistic contemplation.

When would the water stop beckoning his attention?

Michael picked up the receiver. "Hello."

A voice with a distinct Boston accent greeted him. "Michael? This is Bobby. How are you?"

Although not intimidated by any man, Michael knew that he needed to keep his guard up when receiving a call from a former Attorney General of the United States. Fortunately for him, it typically meant the occasional bit of "friendly advice."

"Very well. Thank you," Michael said, his tone of voice more rigid than usual.

"I'm calling because, ahh... Because your tip to us, ahh... saved our country's economy. In fact, it saved the economies of many countries. The economy of the Free World."

Thinking that Bobby was making an accusation veiled in sarcasm, Michael asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You remembah that meeting you informed me about, the one with Auric Goldfingah?"

"Yes, and I didn't make any kind of business deal with him."

"I'm, ahh, not saying you did. If you had, you would have ended up dead."

"What? By whose orders?"

"I think you know. What I can say is that the bodies of, ahh, some heads of majah families were found in a lime pit at Mistah Goldfingah's stud fahm in Kentucky. Anothah one remains unaccounted for. Ahh, 'Nappah' Solo. You made a wise decision, Michael, in more ways than one."

A cold chill passed through Michael.

"Nothing new for you," Bobby continued, "and it saves the Justice Depahtment some problems. I'm sure there will be some struggles, ahh... You know?"

"Rest assured, I'm not interested," Michael said.

"Oh, I know. What I am saying is that you deserve a second chance, Michael. At least Hoovah hasn't been all that interested in your activities, though he wasn't all that interested in Mistah Goldfingah, either. He was too busy keeping an eye on Doctah King. So we thought the CIA should move in instead."

"Did they capture Goldfinger?"

"It was actually, ahh..." A pause. "That's classified."

"Of course."

"At any rate, I just wanted to thank you for your help. It shows that you want to look beyond your own interests."

Michael started to sound more relaxed. "I'm glad to have assisted with your efforts."

"I hope that you will now explore other opportunities, Michael. I know you have been wanting to do that for years. To divest some of your interests"

Michael noticed the door to his office cracking open slightly. "Yes, of course. I had made a promise to..." he started rubbing his right index and middle fingers between his eyes. "... to someone I cared about years ago."

"I understand."

Michael noticed Al Neri standing in the doorway, holding a newspaper. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Mistah Hoffa's no longer a concern, so maybe you could 'do something' about Senatah Keating."

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Just testing, Michael. The campaign should go well, even if he keeps calling me a 'carpetbaggah.' Doesn't he realize we're in New Yawk, not Alabama?"

Michael nodded.

"I even have Johnson's support," Bobby added.

"I'm sure you know to play your cards right with him."

"Of course. He has not choice. But in the meantime, I'll let you savor your success, and think about what you want to do. Let me know if I can be of assistance, too."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Good bye, Michael."

"Good bye."

As Michael replaced the phone receiver, Al moved slowly towards him.

"This couldn't be more perfectly-timed," Michael said. Motioning towards the newpaper, he added, "Does it tell what I did?"

Shaking his head, Al said, "Nothing you did. I don't think."

Michael stood up. "What do you mean? According to Bobby Kennedy, I saved the economy of the Free World."

"How?"

"I don't know. It somehow tied in with me telling them about Goldfinger."

"Sounds like this story ties in with him, too." Gravely, Al added, "You should sit down."

"What? What is it?"

As Michael sat back in his chair, Al said, "This was sent to me by someone in Florida. An issue of the _Miami Beach Sun-Gazette_, from a few days ago."

Taking the publication from Al, Michael asked sardonically, "Something about an old associate?" He started unrolling the paper. "Apparently, Goldfinger eliminated a number of..."

Michael's eyes widened when he saw a circled headline on the front page.

_BIZARRE! BRITISH GIRL GILDED IN FONTAINEBLEAU FRACAS_

_British national Jill Masterson was found dead in room 231 of the Fontainebleau Hotel Tuesday evening. Masterson, 27, was nude and covered in gold paint. __Circumstances surrounding her death remain mysterious. Although skin suffocation is the likely cause, the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner's Office intends to examine Ms. Masterson's body further. Head Examiner Joseph H. Davis is quoted as saying, "This is the strangest case I've ever seen." _

_Room 231 was checked out to another British national, Jason R. Naughton, 33. He was in town on business for Universal Imports, a company based in London, England. Naughton contacted the police upon discovering Masterson's body. He was taken in by Miami Beach Police for questioning, but later released. Police are currently investigating the possibility of other suspects..._

As Michael set the newspaper on his desk, Al noticed that his boss' usual stoic expression had become more hardened.

"Anything you'd like me to do, Michael? Find out about this Naughton?"

Haltingly shaking his head, Michael said, "There's no point. I think we know who did this."

"Maybe Naughton was working for Goldfinger."

"He wouldn't have called the police."

"Maybe it was a ruse on his part. A way to fleece the police."

Michael cocked his head towards Al, exhaling through his nose. He handed the newspaper back to Al. "I can't do this anymore, Al. I'm tired of this paranoia. I'm tired of innocent people getting killed, because of decisions _I_ have made." He stood from his chair. "This is not the life I wanted."

"We all make choices."

"And _my_ choice ended up getting an innocent woman killed."

"What choice, Michael?"

"I could have... I don't know, taken her in. Maybe we could have..." Michael's voice trailed off.

"You can't blame yourself. She could have left him."

Turning to walk towards the large window, Michael hoped that Al would not see his expression in its reflection. "This view. _This_ was why I built the compound here. And now, every day, I can't help but think of Fredo. He broke my heart. And he still does." Michael exhaled heavily. "Tom. Kay. Even if they're not dead, they're also gone. All the people I cared about. They're all _gone_."

_Nothing personal, _Al thought.

"I never told you about Apollonia. One of the most beautiful women I ever met. She was a child, not more than 17. But I married her. She was killed in a car explosion soon afterwards. A bomb meant for me." After several seconds of silence, Michael continued. "I marry a woman, she gets killed. I reject a woman, she also gets killed. The one who doesn't get killed divorces me, and takes my children from me. She was almost killed, too, because of Fredo." A pause. "Maybe it's better that Mary's with her, after all. She'd probably end up dead, too, somehow."

Used to Michael's calm and collected manner in business dealings, as well as the occasional loss of temper within family meetings, Al had difficulty adjusting the more personal ramblings of his boss. Even with the new revelation of Michael's first marriage, as well as his leap in logic about Mary possibly getting killed, Al decided to maintain his silence.

"I wish I could go back. Just help Pop to make sure he wasn't hurt. To keep Sonny from getting killed. To forgive Fredo for getting mixed up with Hyman Roth."

"He almost had you killed," Al finally said.

"I know this doesn't make any sense, Al."

"Leave the past where it is. You have new opportunities, Michael. You have the connections to make it possible."

Nodding, Michael turned back to Al. "I do have something for you to do, right now. Related to Miss Masterson."

"Anything."

"See if you can find her family. I know she at least has a sister, Tilly. She worked for Goldfinger, too."

"If they got Goldfinger, they might be looking for her as an accomplice."

"She might not be working for him now. Not after what happened to Jill. When Tilly came by with that other woman in Floria's to find Jill, she seemed very protective of her. Jill had parents, too. Family that cared for her. Certainly her sister did."

"I'm sure they know what happened, if they're still alive."

"It's more than that, Al. I only knew Jill for one day, but she made me start to think about some things. I never got to tell her. Maybe, if she has family, if she has parents, they would like to know what she did for me. Maybe I should start a charity, on her behalf. I don't know for what."

Al nodded. "I'll find them. There's nothing in the newspaper story about family, but there's probably something somewhere else."

"If you have to go to England. Whatever it takes. I want her to be remembered." Tapping at the newspaper laying on his desk, Michael looked intensely at Al "I just don't want her to be remembered only for_ this_."

"I understand," Al said.

"Thanks, Al." Michael swallowed. "That's all," he mumbled, his voice cracking.

As Al walked towards the door, Michael turned around as well. When the door closed behind him, Michael clasped his hands tightly. He once again stared intently at the vast expanse of water beyond his window, his eyes burning as they held back even more water.


End file.
